


Appetizer

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Public Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unfortunately for Tom Branson, Thomas Barrow is under the table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appetizer

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn’t historically accurate or properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thomas ‘dropped’ the fork long before everyone else reached the dining room, but he doesn’t start really _moving_ until they’re all sitting down. 

He isn’t looking for the fork, of course. Surely, he knows exactly where it is—he’s the one that kicked it under the table. Instead, he’s tormenting Tom, and hopefully being careful about where he crawls—Tom always thought the Crawley’s dining table absurdly huge, but now it seems entirely too close-knit; one stray foot and someone might discover more than a lost utensil. Tom’s only consolation is that Thomas is easily the smartest servant at Downton, or at least the slickest; after everything else he’s done to stay around, he’s unlikely to let himself be thrown out over this. 

If they are caught, Tom will surely be thrown out with him. Tom knows by now that they all want him to move on—everyone at the table supports and accepts and only wants the best for him. ...But they probably mean with another woman, which Tom can’t fathom doing, and not a handsome footman-or-underbutler-or-valet-or-whatever-position-he’s-wrangled-now kneeling between his legs. Right under the dining table. Right in the middle of dinner. 

Mr. Carson looks perturbed as he lowers the salad plate at Tom’s side, doubtless wondering where Thomas gotten off to. Tom, trying very hard to ignore the long, sensual fingers gently nudging his thighs apart, helps himself to lettuce and pretends he has no idea. He passes up on most of the other foods, because he really doesn’t know how much he’s actually going to be able to eat. Lord Grantham—or Robert, as Tom is _still_ learning to call him—is just finishing filling his plate when Tom’s chair is jerked forward—his stomach hits the table edge and he grunts. Those not already in conversation glance at him, and he colours and grins like he meant to do that. Not like Thomas grabbed his chair legs and pulled him as close as possible. His real legs are now entirely too warm—he can feel Thomas’ front flattening into them, and two talented hands are gliding up from the bottom. They smooth over his trousers and dip into his inner thighs, squeezing just enough to make Tom’s breath hitch. He wants to growl for this to stop, but his days of making a spectacle at the dinner table are over, and he grits his teeth and takes it. He clenches his fork too tightly in his fist and deliberately keeps his head down, refusing to catch anyone’s eye. 

They’re talking about Lady Mary. Mary is always everyone’s favourite subject, and normally Tom would listen, pop in with a tamed opinion or two, just to engage. But now he forces himself to poke around his plate, while Thomas’ fingertips draw up and down the growing bulge at his crotch. Something warm ghosts over it, then something soft is pressing into it, the fabric’s growing damp, and Tom nearly chokes—Thomas is mouthing at him through his trousers. He grabs his glass and uses it as an excuse to half cover his face, trying desperately not to picture Thomas’ perfect, pink lips stretching wide around his crotch. 

There’s no hope of that. Thomas presses kiss after torturous kiss into Tom’s budding erection. The worst is when Thomas starts tugging at his belt. Tom shovels a heap of lettuce up to his mouth, hoping against hope that he doesn’t look as suspicious as he feels. His trousers are coming open, and Thomas is carefully pulling him out, kneeling between his thighs while Tom’s entire family sits around him, not to mention the Dowager Countess sitting directly across from him. 

It’s out. There’s no going back. Thomas thumbs Tom’s inner thighs, stroking them warmly, while his twisted mouth licks a long, hot trail down Tom’s shaft, and Tom is sure his face is redder than the tomatoes on his plate. 

He drops his hand as casually as possible, dips below the tablecloth and threads his fingers in Thomas’ silky hair. Thomas just nuzzles into his cock, completely unabashed, and Tom physically shoves him back, half a step away from punching him. 

Thomas, stubborn bastard that he is, doesn’t go easily. He presses back and envelops one of Tom’s balls in his mouth; Tom freezes and tries to stop his eyes from rolling back in his head. Thomas suckles on him with the sort of skill that only top-notch London rent boys are meant to have, and it makes it very hard to stop him. Not just because he’s got a delicate part of Tom’s body precariously close to his teeth. 

So Tom drops his other hand, uses it to cup Thomas’ chin and wrench his jaw open, then pushes him back and has to hold him, because Thomas is evil and wicked and seems intent on ruining everything. 

To Tom’s horror, the Dowager looks over at him, observant as always, and lifts her eyebrows. For a moment, they lock eyes, and he’s sure she’s going to bury him. 

But then she turns and asks Carson, “Well, what do you think of it all?” All what, Tom has no idea and really couldn’t care less. He almost slumps in relief. 

But then Edith asks, “Tom, did you drop something?”

And Tom has to splutter, “No, milady,” out of poor habit and shoot his hands back to the table. He grabs his fork and smiles stupidly and shoves more food into his mouth to avoid having to talk, and Edith, looking halfway between unconvinced and uninterested, turns back to listen to Carson’s opinion on something-or-other.

And Thomas punishes Tom by opening wide and swallowing Tom to the root, all in one efficient push. Tom’s eyes fly open, his spare hand grips the tablecloth, and he could swear he can _feel_ Thomas smirking around his girth. He can feel Thomas’ nose pressing into his stomach, feel Thomas’ chin flattening into his balls, feel Thomas’ velvety tongue lapping at his underside. Then Thomas _sucks_ , and Tom’s whole world spins. 

After all the secret rendezvous he’s had with Thomas, he should really have a higher tolerance than this. But he doesn’t. Thomas sucks his cock, and he sways with pleasure. Thomas slowly draws half off, then slides back on, and Tom can barely stop himself from thrusting back in. He wants to hump Thomas’ face like a dog. Thomas bobs up and down on his own, but he does it too slowly, probably on purpose, and he sucks on every withdraw, blows on the way back up. He takes Tom so far down his throat that it doesn’t even seem possible. His hands pet Tom’s thighs, cup and gently tug and toy with his balls, spread his legs wider and wider. A few thrusts in, Tom feels more like a toy for Thomas’ amusement than the master getting pleasured by a kneeling servant. But that shouldn’t surprise him. 

There’s nothing for it. Tom’s a fighter by nature, but he knows when he’s lost, and the more Thomas sucks him, the less he wants it to stop. He concentrates on keeping his hips perfectly still, and he dazedly stirs salad around his plate, and he sits, helpless, as Thomas takes him all. Thomas slides on and off, on and off, scrapes just a little bit of teeth, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep it exciting, and laps at him. Thomas pulls off and licks over the slit at his head, plays with his foreskin and kisses him, and Tom is trying _so hard_ not to think of his lover’s flushed face. His hands might be shaking. How is no one at the table noticing? It seems an impossibility. How have none of them thought to order Thomas to do this? Maybe they have. Picturing Thomas sucking off hordes of other men under the Crawley table makes Tom alternatively livid with jealousy and awash with a sick, cloying pleasure. God, Thomas is hot. Beautiful, sexy, and his mouth is an inferno, all wet suction taking Tom all the way down—

Tom bites the inside of his lip so hard that blood spurts over his teeth, but it’s better than the alternative. He wants to scream. His orgasm hits him as hard as if they were alone, just the two of them in a big bed, like it should be, and he can feel his own seed slicking back around himself as it pools in Thomas’ mouth. Thomas seems to be holding it on purpose, not taking it down, not pulling off, just letting it fill up and squish around Tom’s length. Tom shoves his fist against his mouth and wouldn’t be surprised if it came away bloody. Thomas is _still_ sucking him. Thomas is massaging his balls like milking it all out. Tom’s head is going to explode. 

Instead, it starts to trickle down, the energy seeping out as his orgasm topples off a cliff and his cock splutters to a stop. Thomas gives another hardy suck and _swallows_ , his throat collapsing around Tom’s cock, and it’s all Tom can do not to cry. Thomas swallows again, then again, taking it all down. Tom is burning up and staring at the table as though he can see Thomas’ smug face right through it. 

“Tom? Are you alright?”

Tom’s head shoots up. Cora is looking at him, concern all over her fair features, and Tom’s not sure he can string together a sentence right now. 

He coughs. Thomas’ mouth slips off his cock, and he can feel Thomas tucking him back into his trousers. Somehow, he manages to say, “I... I’m not feeling well.” Another cough, this time fully faked instead of awkward, and he adds, “I... I should probably lie down.”

“Should we send for the doctor?” Lord Grantham asks, and Tom shakes his head furiously.

“N-no! That really isn’t necessary. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I just... just need a moment.” Finished doing him back up as though nothing happened, Thomas’ hands fall away, and suddenly the space between Tom’s legs feels unbearably empty. 

He announces too loudly, “I’ll be in my room,” and pushes back from the table. Then he gets up and bolts, trying not to wonder how long it’ll be before Thomas can sneak out of there and join him.


End file.
